Mr. North

by Callie Hart

  God, this is going to be awkward. “Yes. Good morning, Professor Dalziel. I came to talk to you because—”

  “I know why you came to talk to me. You thought it would be better to get it out of the way now instead of waiting for me to summon you to my office. I admire that.” He nods briefly, assessing me from head to foot. There’s nothing hungry in his gaze, though. He doesn’t look at me with the same impropriety everyone else has been affecting this morning. He takes a deep breath, and then blows it out down his nose. “You have nothing to worry about from me,” he says matter-of-factly. “I don’t care what you get up to in your free time.”

  “Oh .” We were given a huge talk when we were admitted onto the law program here at Columbia. We were told not to sully the fine name of the establishment. We were warned that improper behavior would lead to us being summarily dismissed from the program, no do-overs, no second chances. “I thought—”

  “Don’t misunderstand me,” Dalziel says, closing the clasps on his beaten leather documents bag. “If you were anyone else, you’d already be on a plane back to whatever pointless, one horse town you came from.”

  “So…I’m not being expelled because I’m a good student?”

  Professor Dalziel laughs. “This whole program is full of good students. You work hard. You get good grades. So does everyone else. You are getting a free pass right now because of my daughter.” He reaches into his back pocket, pulling out his wallet. He opens it up and slides a photo from the clear plastic sleeve. Holding it out, he shows it to me. The little girl in the image is maybe seven or eight, dark-haired like her father, a tiny pair of pink glasses perched on the end of her upturned nose. Her front teeth are missing, and she seems mighty proud of the fact. “Her name is Freya. She’s allergic to peanuts, lactose, dogs, cats, certain grasses, and just about everything else it seems. I’ve had to administer epinephrine to her four times in the past five years. My wife’s had to do it six times. She spends more time at home with her. We have epi-pens in every drawer, cupboard, jacket pocket, and bag inside our home. They’re even stuffed down the sides of the sofa cushions. As far as I’m concerned, Raphael North can fuck every single one of you guys and I’d still be his biggest fan. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go and pick Freya up for our daddy-daughter day.” He puts his wallet away, and when he removes his hand from his pocket again, he’s holding something else in it. As he passes me by, he places a long, white piece of plastic into my hand: an epi-pen. In large blue letters along the side of the plastic, North Industries is printed in dark blue lettering. “Next time you see him,” Professor Dalziel calls over his shoulder as he climbs the stairs. “Tell him I say thank you.”

  Ten

  Beth

  I ’m meant to work at the library again this afternoon, but when I arrive for my shift Henrietta is waiting at the entrance of the building, wearing a stern expression. Unlike Professor Dalziel, she seems less enamored with Raph and more concerned about my new found sex-tape celebrity. “We’ve had camera crews loitering outside all day. This library is a quiet place where people come to read and study. We can’t have that rabble disrupting everyone.”

  “So…I can’t work today?”

  She purses her lips into a disapproving line. “We’ll pay you until the end of the month. I’m sorry, Beth. I really am.”

  So it’s not just today, then. She’s firing me. I’m so frustrated and annoyed by this point that I want to scream at her, to lose my temper, to tell her how ridiculous this whole thing is, but I can see from the look on her face that she’s not going to be moved on the matter. What would be the point in making a scene? Someone would probably catch the whole thing on their cell phone, and it would be live in a matter of seconds. That’s the last thing I fucking need.

  I think about going to David’s place, but then I remember how absolutely unbearable he was last night, and how disgusting his apartment probably is, so I nix that idea. I find myself sitting on the subway, making my way across the city without even thinking about it. It’s only once I’m outside the Osiris Building that I realize what I’m about to do. Less than twelve hours ago I told Nate I didn’t want to be seen entering this huge monolith of a building. Then I had tinted windows and an underground entrance to protect my identity, and now I’m heading in here on foot? Through the front fucking door? I have officially lost my goddamn mind.

  Oliver never seems to go home. His eyes nearly bug out of his head when he sees me hurrying toward him through the lobby. He steps out from behind the reception desk and puts his arm around me, ushering me toward the private elevator without saying a word.

  “Ms. Dreymon! Ms. Dreymon! Elizabeth!” A hand lands on my shoulder, trying to turn me around. “What’s the nature of your relationship with Mr. North, Elizabeth? How long have you been engaging in a sexual relationship with him?”

  “Which escort agency do you work for, Ms. Dreymon? How many clients do you have?”

  The two men standing behind me yell questions over each other, both of them pulling at my arm. Oliver puts himself between me and the reporters, but they’re frenzied, their eyes wild, voice recorders held tightly in both their hands. They shove the Dictaphones in my face, and I feel like my legs are about to buckle from underneath me.

  “Ms. Dreymon is a close personal friend of Mr. North’s,” Oliver states. “She is not an escort, and has nothing to say at this time. If you have any questions relating to Mr. North’s business endeavors, please direct them to our public relations department. If your questions are of a personal nature, please feel free to vacate the building at your earliest convenience.”

  The guys aren’t listening, of course. They’re too busy straining to reach around Oliver, grabbing and clawing at my shirt. “Ms. Dreymon! Ms. Dreymon! Are you Raphael’s mistress? Are you moving into the penthouse with him, Elizabeth? Elizabeth !”

  My heart is beating out of my chest as Oliver pulls me through the door and slams it shut behind us. His professional exterior has slipped, anger twisting his features. “Fucking animals,” he hisses. “I’ll call security as soon as you’re upstairs. Don’t worry. They won’t be here when you leave.”

  “Thank you, Oliver. I’m sorry for the trouble.” I don’t know why I’m apologizing. I haven’t asked for any of this. I didn’t do anything wrong. By coming here, I’m causing trouble. I know that. It was probably a bad idea, but I’ve avoided this for as long as I can now, and I just cashed in the last fuck I could possibly give when Henrietta told me I no longer had a job.

  I take my shoes off and slide them into my bag without thinking. No defiance this time. I’m nervous. My palms sweat like crazy as I watch the numbers illuminate one by one, marking out the floors as I ascend. What if he doesn’t actually want to see me? What if he sends me away? There’s every chance his business advisors have counseled him against further contact with me. I haven’t exactly checked the share prices on North Industries, but a public scandal like this can only breed distrust. It must be hurting him financially, and he’s a clever, pragmatic kind of guy when it comes to business and money. Surely he wouldn’t allow something like this to affect his bottom line.

  The doors slide back and I hurry out, my bare feet slapping against the marble flooring. I stop halfway to the door when I see Thalia sitting in a heap in the middle of the anteroom, her purse up-ended around her, a bottle of water gripped tightly in her hand. Her eyes seem unfocused when she looks up at me. A deep frown forms on her face.

  “Beth? You came. Finally .” Her relief is exaggerated, like she’s being sarcastic. It’s only when I draw a little closer that I see it’s not. She’s drunk. Hammered, in fact. The bottle of water in her hands is actually vodka, and it’s almost fucking empty. I drop my purse and sink to my knees in front of her, cupping her face in my hands.

  “What are you doing, Thalia? Why weren’t you in class this morning?”

  “I had to make sure he was okay,” she says, her words running into one another. “You didn’t ans
wer my texts. You didn’t come over here, so…I had to.”

  “I was going to. I just…I needed a little time to figure out what I was going to say.”

  Thalia arches an eyebrow, her eyelids half closing. She unscrews the cap from the vodka bottle, lifts it to her lips and takes three deep gulps of the clear liquid inside. “Did you figure it out?” she asks flatly. “What you’re gonna say to him? Because this isn’t him, Beth. It isn’t, I swear. He’s had to live his life behind closed doors for a long time now. It’s a miracle they figured out how to invade his privacy here. A fucking miracle . He’s done absolutely everything he can to avoid prying eyes. He feels just as violated as you do right now.”

  Violated. That’s a good word for it. I really do feel like I’ve been compromised. “I’m not mad at him , Thalia. I’m mad at the situation.” It’d be easy enough to assign blame, to say that Raphael was careless and should have known that fucking me up against that glass would lead to dire consequences, but it’s not the case. Seventy-three floors: the penthouse’s secluded nature should have been enough to keep that frenzied, urgent, lust-filled moment between us sacred.

  Thalia knocks back another shot of vodka and then holds out the bottle to me. “He won’t answer the door to me. Can you believe that?” she asks.

  I take the bottle from her and I put it on the ground behind me, out of her reach. “Did he message you?”

  She nods morosely. “He told me not to come.”

  “Then why did you?”

  “Because. I made a promise a long time ago. I told her I’d watch out for him. I swore I’d make sure he was okay.”

  “You promised? You promised who ?”

  “Chhhhlllllooooeeeee .” Thalia says the name as though the answer should be obvious, that I’m stupid for not knowing. She’s never mentioned anyone by the name Chloe before, though. Never once since we met has that name ever crossed her lips.

  “Who’s Chloe?”

  A flicker of doubt passes over Thalia’s face. She hiccups, then bites her bottom lip, as if she realizes she’s said something wrong. “It doesn’t matter anymore. That was a long time ago. You’re here now. You’re here to make things better. You’re here to fix him. If you don’t, all of this has been for nothing.” Another loud hiccup echoes around the anteroom. She flops back onto the marble, her head rocking to one side as she looks out of the window to the city beyond. “We dreamed of this place, y’know?” She sighs, a sound of pure exhaustion. Her eyes glaze over; she stacks her hands on her sternum, crossing her feet at the ankle. “We used to sit on the rooftop at Paxton’s place and dream of being higher than the rest of the city even then. We wanted to be able to see the whole world from our vantage point. Money and power bought us the best view in New York, but still we weren’t happy with what we had. Raphael said he’d build this place. He already knew back then how special the Osiris would be. That it would be a haven for us.” She closes her eyelids, a tear rolling from the corner of the eye, streaking across the bridge of her nose. “Instead, it became his prison.”

  “Thalia, stop.”

  I look up, and Raphael is standing at the entrance to the penthouse, wearing sweat pants and a Star Wars t-shirt, ripped at the collar. Dark, bruised circles ring his eyes, exhaustion hanging over him like a black cloud. He is the very picture of a haunted man. Thalia nearly hurts herself in her hurry to get up. She scrambles, her feet sliding out from underneath her, and she has to slap a palm to the floor in order to stop herself from falling. Raphael flinches back and I can see it written plainly on his face: he wants to vanish back inside the penthouse and lock the door behind him. He does not want to see Thalia at all. He keeps his hands in the pockets of his sweat pants as she rushes across the anteroom and throws her arms around his neck. He tolerates her embrace, standing stiff as a board while she hugs him, his eyes locked on me over her shoulder.

  He doesn’t breathe a word. Thalia leans back, her hands traveling over Raph’s face, brushing his hair back, her movements frantic, as if she’s checking him for injuries or something. A choked sob rips through the silence. “Raphael. Raphael, god, are you okay? I can’t believe you’re here right now. God, I can’t believe it. I can’t fucking believe it.” She sobs again, her voice filled with pain and sorrow. “She didn’t want this for you,” she whispers. “She didn’t want to see you like this.”

  Slowly, with cold detachment, Raphael turns his head so that he’s looking directly into Thalia’s eyes. “You need to leave,” he says. “You can’t be here. You know that.”

  She shakes her head, hugging him fiercely again. “You don’t need to do this anymore. It’s all over. It’s been over for a very long time.”

  Raphael remains unmoved by her emotion. He might as well be made out of the same marble that stands beneath our feet. Eventually, with the most careful, measured movements imaginable, he reaches up behind his head and takes Thalia by the wrists, detaching her from him, placing her arms back down by her sides. “It doesn’t matter,” he says. His words aren’t unkind or callous. They’re simply resigned. “Go back down now. I need to talk to Beth.”

  “I’ll come back. Tomorrow.” She sniffs, a pleading look in her eyes. I’ve never seen her like this before—so dejected and upset. I have no idea what’s happened between these guys, but whatever it is has broken them all so thoroughly that there’s never going to be a way back from it. Raphael knows it. It appears that Thalia just can’t accept it, though. Can’t or won’t.

  “That wouldn’t be a good idea,” Raphael tells her. “I’m having new security measures installed tomorrow. You won’t be allowed into the elevator. Go home and rest. You can email me if you need to.”

  “I’ve known you since I was three years old!” Thalia snaps. “I shouldn’t have to email you, Raphael. I should be able to come here whenever I want to. Whenever you need me.”

  “I know,” Raphael agrees. “But that’s just not how things are. I’m sorry, Thalia, I really am.” I can hear how sad he is, how much he means it. He closes his eyes and kisses her temple, then he looks back toward the elevator, nodding. I’ve been so distracted by what’s happening that I haven’t noticed the two men in deep maroon blazers stepping out into the anteroom. Security guards. Both of them have shaved heads and earpieces, and look like they’re probably ex military.

  “Is that…really necessary?” I ask quietly.

  Raphael’s eyes are on fire when he looks at me. He doesn’t say anything, though. Thalia steps back, wiping her face with the back of her hand. “It’s okay. It’s really okay. I’ll go. I shouldn’t have come. I’m sorry, Raph.”

  A flash of pain contorts his features, but then the blank, empty look returns to his face almost immediately. He strokes his hand down the side of Thalia’s face, and then turns and walks back inside the penthouse without looking back. I help Thalia gather up the contents of her purse, which are still spread all over the anteroom floor. Her hands are shaking, her cheeks red, as she stuffs makeup and notebooks back into the bag. I think she’s angry at me for a second, angry that I can stay and speak with him, to see how he is, that I’m able to spend time with a man she so obviously cares about. Then she grabs me by the hand and squeezes.

  “He’s not okay, Beth. Don’t believe him if he says he is. He’s hurting. He’s afraid he’s lost you. Don’t give up on him. Please .” Desperation colors her voice. Her nails bite into my skin as she clenches hold of me, and once again I find myself tumbling down the rabbit hole, so confused and turned around by her attitude. She’s so sure I’ll be the Band-Aid to fix whatever hurt Raphael is suffering from. The thing about Band-Aids is that they’re temporary. They only mask the problem. The body heals beneath, or it doesn’t. A Band-Aid only hides the progress.

  “Tell me what’s going on,” I whisper. “Please, Thalia. I can’t stand this anymore. And now, with the entire world watching…”

  She blinks, her mascara streaking down her face in twin, thick black lines, and for a second I think she migh
t tell me. The entire thing is sitting there on the tip of her tongue. A heartbeat later and it’s gone, though. With one last squeeze of my arm, she says, “Just don’t give up on him, Beth.”

  *

  R aphael isn’t in the vast lounge area when I walk into the penthouse. Nor is he in either of the VR studios. I haven’t been through any of the other doors that line the hallways, haven’t seen inside any of the rooms beyond, so it feels rude to start opening them up one by one on my mission to find him. I call his name until the sound of my voice rings out like a struck bell through the painfully silent space; there’s no way he doesn’t hear me, wherever he is. He doesn’t answer, though.

  I find myself back in the formal dining room where Denny brought us steak the other night. Raphael is nowhere to be seen. I give up trying to be polite. I open up two offices, five guest bedrooms, a small library along with an actual movie theater, but I can’t seem to locate him. I’m about to call him on his phone when I notice a door at the far end of the hallway I find myself in standing ajar, and a tall column of sunlight cutting through the shadows.

  When I peer through the open doorway, a flight of stairs leads up into what looks like open air. The sky is so very blue overhead. I creep up the stairs, uncertainty filling me from head to toe. Raph didn’t tell me to leave. He told Thalia he needed to talk to me and he left the door from the anteroom into the penthouse open. The security guards didn’t wait to escort me out of the building the way they did with Thalia. So why is it, then, that I feel like I’m intruding? Breaking the rules somehow?

  At the top of the stairway, I find myself in the middle of the most beautiful rooftop garden imaginable. Plants, flowers…even trees. Everywhere I look, something green is growing. Terracotta pots form pathways leading from one section of the garden into the next, and on the far side of the roof, a step drops down onto a lawned area where Raphael is standing with his back to me. With a shotgun in his hand.

  I stop dead in my tracks.